Nirvana
by Typhoonmaster
Summary: A fateful disaster forces two young adults on an unanticipated journey. Living on an isolated island their entire lives, Wake and Grace plunge into a world full of unbelievable places, exotic people, and mysterious spirits. The eye-opening experience changes them forever and reveals who they are. Nirvana is the story of perseverance and unexpected friendship on the road less taken.
1. Prologue

The ocean always seems to calm me down. I think it's something about the scent of the air. The salt water makes the air smell sweet and inexplicably fresh. Or, maybe it's the rolling pattern of the waves, breaking and washing ashore, wiping the sand clean and smooth. The ocean continues on in this way, never really changing, never really caring about what goes on outside. Every now and then, someone will walk along the surf, leaving footprints in the wet sand. But, the waves will always wash those prints away, as if nobody had been there at all.

My footprints trailed me as I quietly walked beside the waves, the cool water tickling my ankles now and then. I didn't really know where I was going, or how long I would walk, but I didn't care; I had a lot on my mind, and I needed to sort things out. I guess I'm at a point in my life where I'm both excited and nervous at the same time. On one hand, I can't wait to go out into the world, free to make my own decisions, free to meet new people and create my future. On the other hand, I don't know if I'm ready for all that responsibility and pressure. What if I fail? Nobody will be there to pick me up if I fall. As I continued along that strip of sand, I realized the ocean is a lot like life.

Early in the morning, before the sun came up, I thought about these realities. At least I think they are realities. Oh, it's early morning because I couldn't sleep at all, and I didn't see any point in lying in bed just to stare at the ceiling. _Focus. _Back to my epic metaphor. We are all like pieces of driftwood, floating around in the ocean. Sometimes life is mellow and easy going: everything works out. Other times, life takes everything away from you, breaking and battering you down like the waves crashing on the cliffside. That's when you ask yourself, "what is the point of all this?" What is the point of life?

Well, if life is like the ocean, and we are pieces of driftwood, then I'm not too optimistic. I don't want to float around forever, not knowing my destination, powerless against the waves. Is there such thing as fate? Is it predetermined? Can we choose our paths in life? Do we actually make a difference in the world? I glanced back at my trail of footprints. The whitewash foam crept over the prints and they faded away. Maybe our lives will be washed away like footprints in the sand, forgotten. In the grand scheme of things, we are actually small, tiny, and inconsequential to the ocean that is life. I hate to say it, but life, like the ocean, doesn't acknowledge our existence once we have been washed away. People will come and go, but life goes on.

Well that sucks doesn't it! Life just...doesn't matter? That's when I stopped walking and sat in the dry sand to the side of the waves. People matter. The world matters. I'd like to think I matter, too. I sifted through the shells and stones washed up next to me, pretty little pebbles and broken bits. Even after we have gone and passed, we exist in memories, in the things we've done, and in the people we've affected. The ripples of the water touch over everything. The world is so vast, and time is so short. I'm not going to figure out the meaning of life by sitting in the sand and picking up shells.


	2. The Boy with Black Hair

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Avatar. **

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Miles and miles of blue stretched from horizon to horizon, not even a sliver of land in sight. The sea teems with all kinds of life: fish, birds, crustaceans, coral reefs, and kelp forests. Tiny fish dart between towering stalks of kelp, and crabs take refuge in rocky crevices. Enormous schools of silver fish dance in perfect synchronization, like a shimmering cloud, twisting and curling beneath the surface. Along comes a pod of dolphin-turtles, intent on catching their prey. The hunters use teamwork and technique to corral the school of fish, and they take turns swimming through, picking off their prey left and right. The helpless school grows increasingly chaotic, and the numbers dwindle as the dolphin-turtles eat their fill. In only a few minutes, the school of fish is completely gone, and all that remains is the silent kelp forest, swaying in the current.

Compared to the underwater view, there isn't much to see from the island. It's a lot of blue. Actually, everything is blue, the sky, the ocean, everything. Island life, likewise, is quite different from the life underwater. The islanders have lived the same way for centuries. Generations come and go without anyone leaving the island. Many islanders never see anything except the endless blue that meets the sky. For that reason, the island and the village don't even have names; it's not like the inhabitants will ever tell anyone where they are from. The village, if it could even be considered a village, is really just a bunch of huts and little shops surrounding a "village square." It's a quiet life indeed, living each day like the last one, and knowing the next day will be the same.

Every now and then, ships pass by, and sometimes they even dock. Aside from exotic foods, artifacts, and spices, the sailors bring their stories. Villagers flock to the docks to hear exaggerated stories of dragons, kingdoms, riches, and spirits. The sailors boast about slaying sea monsters, smuggling with pirates, and traveling to the ends of the earth. For days upon end, the villagers revel in these tales, dreaming of snowy mountains and temples made of gold. But, the visitors are soon on their way as they rig up their masts and sail off into the blue. Once again, the village returns to its quiet lifestyle, and the waves continue to wash ashore.

At night, all the fishermen gather in the "bar" to drink and gamble. The bar isn't really a bar so much as it's just a larger hut. Either way, it's the liveliest place on the island, which isn't saying much. Fishermen cluster around Mahjong tables, betting whatever they have to offer from copper pieces to random items washed up on the beach. The routine follows the same pattern every time: each fishermen brags that he will win, the game commences, only one player wins, the losers accuse him of cheating, the winner buys everyone drinks. That pattern repeats itself well into the night, pretty much every night. This is where the story begins: a noisy little bar full of drunken fishermen.

While the fishermen hooted and hollered as they placed bets, the Old Man leaned back in his chair, smoking a wooden pipe. Well, nobody actually knew his age, but at least he looked really old. A weathered grey beard covered most of his face, and he wrapped a tattered white cloth around his head. Deep wrinkles and tan lines ran across his dark skin from years out at sea. His hands were calloused and rough, the skin broken and healed time after time while working with course rope. He took puffs from his pipe and blew rings of smoke into the air, watching the wisps unfurl and vanish. The Old Man looked unassuming and common like any other fisherman, but his eyes told a different story. His piercing blue eyes cut through all of the wrinkles and scars. Others simply couldn't look him in the eye, intimidated by the intensity of his stare. After sailing through storms and spending days upon end on the open ocean, the Old Man's eyes reflected the brilliant life underneath the water's surface and the wildness needed for survival.

He never spoke, and for that reason, nobody actually knew his name. Everyone just called him, "Old Man." He never drank or joked around with the others. He never played Mahjong or gambled. Every night, he sat in his corner and smoked his wooden pipe, saying nothing. Nobody really acknowledged him besides to give a greeting if they happened to pass by. Even so, he unnerved many of the fishermen. They whispered to each other in hushed tones, "Who is he? Why won't he speak? What is wrong with him?" There was something obviously different about the old man with the grey beard and piercing blue eyes: he was the only person not from the island.

Nobody knew where he came from, or when he arrived. Nobody in their right mind tried to ask him either. Every now and then, the fishermen dared each other to go and ask him questions, but they chickened out nine times out of ten. On this night, however, they took advantage of a particularly drunk guy wearing a lopsided straw hat, and sent him over to question the Old Man.

The drunk stumbled over, "Hey there old-timer, whatchya got there? Is that a pipe?"

The Old Man stared back at the disheveled fishermen, his hat tilted ungracefully to the side. He took a puff from his pipe, ignoring the drunken man standing before him.

"Why are ya always so quiet? Why don'tchya *_burp_* talk for once?

The Old Man put down his pipe and sat forward in his chair. His unmoving stare cut through the fisherman's stupor, and caught him by surprise.

The fisherman trembled, "I'm only doing this because they dared me to," as he pointed to the group gathered around the bar. "Just tell me where you're from."

The Old Man closed his eyes and sighed. Then, he did something that nobody had ever seen him do before. He stood up, and when he did, the entire room went silent. All conversations ceased, and the gambling paused. Standing straight, the Old Man was taller than expected, and he looked stronger and more able than anyone would have guessed. His features softened as he looked back at the silly man in the hat. Life seemingly drained out of his eyes, and he said "I'm from a place very far away."

And with that, the Old Man brushed aside the confused man standing before him, and left the bar in silence. The rest of the fishermen remained frozen in place, unable to comprehend what just happened. After a few minutes, the laughing and gambling started up again, but by then the Old Man had made his way across the docks and down to the shore.

Tonight, the moon rose full and bright, and the waves calmly crept up the shoreline. The Old Man continued along the edge of land and sea, not knowing where he was going, not really caring either. That question caught him by surprise, "Where are you from?"

Scattered memories connected together as the Old Man thought of his past. The truth is, he traveled all over the world, and saw so many sights. While the fishermen in the bar wondered about the wild tundra of the South Pole and the deep canyons in the middle lands, the Old Man knew those places to be real. The spirits, too, invisibly lived among them, their world connecting with the physical. His eyes reflected back all of the sights he had seen, but they also concealed the experiences he wished, in vain, to forget.

An odd noise broke the tranquility. At first it sounded like nothing, but the sound developed into a distinct noise with a definite source. Farther up, on the edge of the shore, the Old Man spotted a bundle in the sand. As he neared the bundle, he recognized the sound to be that of crying. The moonlight illuminated a wooden basket and, inside it, a pure white blanket. When the Old Man examined the odd basket, the crying stopped altogether. Gently unwrapping the white blanket, he uncovered a baby boy! Compared to all the wild, crazy things he'd encountered in his lifetime, the Old Man decided this might be the most surprising. What was an abandoned baby, no more than a few weeks old, doing next to the ocean with high tide coming in?

The Old Man picked up the baby and brought him into the light. The infant had pitch-black hair that contrasted with the white blanket, hair blacker than anything the Old Man had ever seen before. Then, he looked into the baby's eyes. The baby unflinchingly stared back at him, causing the Old Man to blink in surprise. The baby boy didn't smile, laugh, cry, or make a sound: he just gazed at the Old Man with wide, dark eyes. The eyes reflected neither fear nor happiness. Instead, they held a sense of knowing, a certain type of wisdom seemingly impossible for a baby to possess. The baby from the edge of the ocean uttered not a single sound as the Old Man carried him back to the village.


	3. The Girl with White Hair

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Avatar. **

* * *

The Island is about four miles in diameter, and most people live directly on the sea. A mile or so inland, a small forest occupies the center. The forest provides the wood needed for boats, masts, and houses, as well as firewood. The villagers make sure to conserve the trees; so, they only use materials essential for survival and never waste. The forest also supplies fresh water. Trees absorb water into their roots, and the underground root system makes the soil stable enough to support an ecosystem. Shrubs and ferns grow on the edge of a freshwater pond deep in the woods. Everyday, a couple of villagers, mostly children, make the hike into the forest to bring back freshwater. Today, however, someone else sat by the pond.

The lone man rested cross-legged facing the clear water. Unseen birds chirped overhead and leaves swayed in the summer breeze. Little bugs, pond-skaters, skimmed along the surface, leaving tiny ripples. The man silently watched and listened. Compared to the idyllic scene before him, the man's mind was anything but tranquil. He took a deep breath and sighed.

Never before had he felt such a potent mixture of fear and excitement. Both at twenty-five years of age, Ren and his wife, Fay, lived happily together in the village. Instead of fishing, the two earned a living by brewing sake. On an elevated piece of land, Ren and Fay built their house and cultivated shuzo rice terraces. The combination of Ren's harvesting and Fay's brewing earned them great recognition and praise from the community. Their sake brought the bar back to life, and the village began to annually celebrate festivals of harvest.

After Ren and his workers harvest and polish the shuzo rice, Fay brews and steams the grains into a mash, careful to not overcook, or else the tastes will mix too early. A tedious process, she regulates the temperature of the fire, applying air when needed. Over the next few days, she adds water to the mash in a three-step cycle. After that, she adds a touch of yeast to begin the fermentation process that lasts two weeks. Finally, the sake mash solid is filtered out and the alcohol is poured into sealed bottles for storage. Deep underneath the terraces, the sake matures in cool air and fully completes the process after nine months. Such a laborious process requires the attention of more than one person; so, many girls of the village help Fay in the brewing process.

Compared to the rest of the village, Ren and Fay live reasonably well in a spacious wooden home fit with furniture and windows. Every night, they thanked the spirits for their generosity. Secretly, they planned to leave the island and chase their future. The young lovers wanted to see the world and travel to new places. They knew one day they would sail away towards brighter horizons. Ren and Fay thought they couldn't have been happier. The universe, once again, rewarded them with another great fortune when they discovered Fay was pregnant.

Nine months later, Ren sat cross-legged by the familiar pond. He tried his hardest to clear his mind, but nothing worked. He was going to be a father! He knew he should feel unimaginably happy. He imagined raising his child, holding him or her in his lap, and whispering soft stories before bed. There is a kind of fatherly instinct in every man. In a different way, men are subtly gentle and giving. Men want to protect and care for their children, sacrificing everything for them. It's not like motherhood; it's harder to describe. But at that moment, Ren wished with all his heart to be a father. He imagined holding the child's tiny hand in his own, bringing him or her to the pond to count the cattails, and sailing off towards that future he always dreamed about.

Every time he thought about being a father, the doubt returned. What if he turned out to be a terrible father? What if his child hated him? What if he couldn't handle the responsibility? He didn't know if he was ready. Next to that silent pond he sat, mixing thoughts, nervously contemplating every situation. They say the labor process is painful for the mother, but it also takes it's toll on the powerless fathers.

Lilies floated on the surface of the water, and white lotus flowers slowly drifted. Ren tenderly dipped his hand into the water and picked up a white lotus bud. He was careful not to bend the petals when he held it in his cupped hands. The slender white petals radiated from the golden center in perfect symmetry. He admired the white lotus' simple, fragile beauty. It came first as a small revelation as he held the flower. Just like he gently picked up the lotus, he would be even more careful with his child. Handling and raising a child is not so different than holding a white lotus in cupped hands; it requires patience and care. With the same grace as he picked it up, Ren let the white lotus back into the pond. Then, he dusted himself off and headed back to the village, readily taking his first steps into a new future.

The trail weaved through trees and bushes. The canopy shaded him from the harsh summer sun. As he neared the end, he heard the usual noises of the shops and dock, fishermen hoisting their nets and shopkeepers subsequently haggling for the best price. The trail opened up to the little village, and he immediately recognized his home situated next to the rice terraces. His heart skipped a beat as the distance closed. When he arrived at the door, he hesitated. He thought, "This is it. I'm ready to meet the person who will change the rest of my life." Then, he took a deep breath and opened the door.

At first, he could've sworn nobody was home: it was that quiet.

Ren spoke out, "Hey, is anybody home?" It was really a stupid question considering both his wife and the midwives had to be there. It's not like they could just leave.

A young midwife poked her head around the corner, "Shhhh! The baby is sleeping!"

Ren's eyes widened and he motioned to the bedroom door, "May I?"

The midwife nodded her consent.

Fay wore comfortable white robes tied loosely around the waist. Her brown hair was matted against her forehead, and she relaxed, eyes closed, with her head against a pillow: she was exhausted. When she noticed Ren's presence, her eyes fluttered open and she smiled. Her visible happiness made Ren feel lighter than air as he took his place at her bedside.

She whispered softly, "You really should meet our daughter."

His face lit up, "We have a daughter?"

Fay pointed to the corner of the room. A small bundle rested in the wooden crib Ren had crafted.

"Go on, bring her over so we can be a family for the first time."

Ren cradled the newborn like he cradled the white lotus. He dipped his hands and delicately lifted her from the crib. She was so small and fragile; it felt like she weighed nothing. Upon being lifted, she began to cry, but when she looked at her father, she stopped. Instead, she laughed, giggled, actually. Her laugh was so heart-warming and innocent that Ren began to laugh, too. This marked the first of many times that Ren would laugh with his daughter. He brought the laughing infant to Fay, and then he truly looked at his child for the first time.

She was truly something else. Her small face turned up into a bright smile. Something about her seemed electric; Ren immediately noticed her wild spirit. But, her most surprising features were her eyes and hair. She gazed back at her parents with golden eyes like nothing they had ever seen before. Where her parents both had brown hair, she hair was pure white.

"She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," said Ren.

Fay tickled the babies chin, provoking more laughter, "What should we name her?"

"I've actually been thinking about names...and I want our daughter's name to mean something... something important. We've been so fortunate over the past few years. I want her name to be a reminder of how we should always be thankful for what he have."

Ren looked at his family, so full of love.

"I want to name her Grace."


	4. A Beautiful Mind

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in Avatar. **

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Eight years passed since the Old Man discovered the mysterious baby next to the ocean. For eight years, the Old Man raised the child as if he were his own, teaching him how to sail, fish, and take care of himself. In return, the boy taught the Old Man to smile again, to be free. The boy brought life back to the Old Man's face, and gave him a new reason to live. Where the Old Man had been hollow inside, the boy filled his life with meaning.

The boy wasn't the Old Man's son, and the Old Man wasn't his father. The two, despite their obvious age difference, were simply great friends. For that reason, the Old Man never parented or restricted the boy from doing anything; not that it really mattered. Unlike other children, the boy with the pitch-black hair carried himself with an indescribable sense of maturity, far beyond his years. Most kids spend their time playing in the water, making games, or building toys. From a young age, the boy took a serious approach to life, insatiably trying to learn everything he could about anything. He spent his time examining different plants and animals in the woods, learning all the species of fish in the coral reef, and teaching himself how read.

For his sixth birthday, the Old Man gave the boy a fishing pole. From that day forward, the boy worked day and night, making improvements to the pole. He reinforced the line with strips of twine that washed up on the shore, and he improved the pole with flexible wood he found in the forest. As a result, the pole could cast out farther than one hundred meters, deep into the abundant coral reefs. Discovering his newfound passion, the boy woke up early every morning to fish. He caught all sorts of fish, crabs, and eels with his pole, and he sold his catches to the local markets, earning a nice little profit. He stashed his money in a wooden box beneath his bed, and waited for the right time to use it.

That time came a year later, when trading ships from the West arrived at The Island. The sailors brought all kinds of goods: swords, musical instruments, and, most importantly, scrolls. Not many villagers had ever seen a scroll before, and most weren't too impressed with the sheets of marked parchment. But, the boy constantly pestered the sailors, asking about the scrolls. He was captivated by the intricate designs and illustrations that ranged from curvy flowers to Japanese Maples to fighting styles to cooking instructions.

He would ask, "What are the markings?" and "What do they mean?"

The sailors jeered, "If you want to know so badly, you're gonna have to pay, bub."

And he did pay. He used his earnings from fishing and purchased a single scroll. To say the boy was obsessed with the scroll would be an understatement. The scroll was filled with ink characters and confounding illustrations of animals: sky bison, koi fish, badgermoles, and dragons. He stayed up late at night and traced the symbols. He dared not get even the smallest smudge or speck of dirt on his precious scroll, so he carved the symbols into pieces of driftwood, mastering each line-stroke to perfection. Piles of carved driftwood accumulated in the corner of the hut where the boy slept. Eventually, the Old Man forced him to stop because neither of the two got any sleep with the candle burning throughout the night.

Somehow, from scrutinizing the scroll countless times and carving the characters, the boy taught himself how to read and write. The Old Man had no explanation other than that. He had not the faintest idea how the kid figured it out, but he did: he taught himself to read and write. With his newfound skills, he used a bamboo shoot to etch characters in the wet sand. He composed his own words and stories, and read them back to the Old Man. As he improved in his technique, the trails of characters spread far down the shoreline. The high tide washed away the slate, and the boy started a new project the next day.

He constantly impressed the Old Man with his grasp of logic and his innate ability to understand things. The Old Man taught him how to rig a sailboat; the boy sailed off by himself the next morning and came back with ten pounds of fish.

The key to fishing, the boy said, "Is to find a school of fish, and corral them like the dolphin-turtles."

The boy thought differently than everyone else; he looked at the world from a new angle. It was, perhaps, this genius quality that so enchanted the Old Man. Over the course of his life and travels, never before had the Old Man met such a unique individual. But, no matter how happy the Old Man was, there lingered an overwhelming sense of regret: the boy was confined, unable to leave the island and share his talents with the world, at least for now.

Fishing boats anchored off the coast of the island, and the midday sun rose high in the cloudless sky. The ocean was calm today, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. The boy sat with his legs hanging off the side of the wooden dock, his ragged white pants rolled up to his knees. His wild black hair almost reached his shoulders, his back tan from sitting shirtless in the sun. He stared out at the unchanging ocean and motionless boats until he realized nothing was going to happen, and then he let out a long exasperated sigh.

The Old Man watched from the entrance of the hut, smiling and shaking his head. He made his way towards the dock and the kid who was bored out of his mind. As he approached, the boy remained slumped over, his legs swinging freely off the side of the dock.

"What's on your mind Wake?"

"Nothing."

"I find that hard to believe," the Old Man grinned.

"Well, believe it."

The Old Man took a seat next to Wake. The two sat in silence and watched the boats do absolutely nothing. The Old Man didn't mind spending time with the boy, even if that time consisted of doing nothing. After twenty minutes or so, the Old Man broke the silence.

"Why do you stare at the ocean from a distance if you could just sail out there and see it up close?"

Wake shifted in his seat, "I dunno, I guess I'm just too lazy to rig up the sails."

Even though he was only eight years old and small for his age, Wake discovered ways to tie up the sails and rig the boat with makeshift knots and pulleys. It wasn't traditional, but it worked.

"Well then you're in luck because I already rigged the boat this morning."

The boy's lethargic attitude didn't change.

"...Eh."

The Old Man laughed, "What does that mean? Sailing out and seeing what's going on is better than sitting here until you melt into the dock."

Wake weighed the proposal, "I can't argue with that."

The young boy jumped up like a spring and dived headfirst into the water. He emerged fifty meters away at the side of the Old Man's boat. Getting a good grip on the rope, the boy pulled himself up and tumbled over the side. Soaking wet from head to toe, he shouted out:

"I'm waiting on you Old Man!"

Fortunately, the wind picked up soon after they set off. The white sail caught the wind just right, and whitewash leapt from the sides. As usual, the Old Man controlled the sail, and Wake manned the rudder. Neither of them had to do much, since the wind caught at the perfect angle. Before long, the island faded from view, and the endless open ocean surrounded them. Around half an hour into the journey, the Old Man spoke up:

"I think this should be far enough. Watch out for the boom."

Wake instinctively ducked as the boom swung across, and then he positioned the sail parallel to the wind. Out at sea, the boy's attitude changed from bored indifference to fierce determination. The Old Man noticed Wake's focus as he let the rope go slack, and brought the boat into a neutral standstill.

The kid wiped a bead of sweat off his brow, "Let's see if the fish are biting."

Waves gently rocked the boat. The midday sun crept across the sky, yet not a single fish took the bait. At one point, Wake thought he had a snag, but it turned out to be a piece of kelp. He was visibly annoyed:

"No wonder those boats weren't doing anything. There are absolutely no fish today! This is ridiculous!"

The Old Man shrugged, "If they ain't biting, they ain't biting."

The boy turned his attention to tying weird knots with the rope. After that, he leaned off the side of the boat and ran his hand through the water. Finally, he turned back to the Old Man:

"I've been listening to the sailors' conversations at night in the bar. Those guys have been everywhere!"

The Old Man smirked, "Oh really? Like where?"

"All over the place! One guy talked about a mysterious swamp where people disappear. Another guy went to the far North and met people who can talk to spirits. But, the craziest story was the story of the moving island; one day it was there, then the next day it completely vanished."

"And you believe their stories?" the Old Man asked.

"I'm not sure what to believe. I hope the stories are true because that would be awesome!"

Even though the kid was mature for his age, he still showed childlike curiosity and innocence.

"I'll tell you a story, but it's up to you if you want to believe it," said the Old Man.

The skinny kid nodded like a goof.

"Alright then, here is the story."

"A very long time ago, three friends grew up in a land filled with mountains and rivers. The air was crisp and the forests were green. Like all young people, the three friends wanted to be free, free to see the world. One day, they cut down trees from the forest, and they built a boat. It was a beautiful boat made of hard, strong wood, and it had two large sails. Over time, they stored supplies like food, water, and money, and then when the time came, they left. They left without a single word or goodbye to their families. The friends and families of the three young men had no idea what happened, and they would never find out for as long as they lived."

The Old Man paused to stroke his long, grey beard. He continued:

"With that boat, they sailed all over the place and saw incredible sights like the fiery Western coast and temples hewn from mountainsides. But, one fateful night, the three friends got caught in a merciless storm. Thunder crashed, and lightning screeched. The brave wooden boat lasted as long as it could, but it filled with water and capsized. The three friends jumped out at the last second and grabbed onto anything they could fine. They tried to stick together, but the rough waves separated them. The wind and rain drowned out their shouts as the ocean dragged them farther and farther apart."

He sighed, "By the time the storm subsided, the boat was gone and the three young friends were never heard from again. Many say they survived by making it to shore. Others say they perished in that storm. Some even say the spirits saved them."

Wake remained silent for a few moments, thinking about what he just heard.

"Is that a true story?"

The Old Man's blue eyes twinkled.

"You tell me."


	5. The Artist

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Avatar. **

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The little girl lay flat on her stomach with her legs dangling in the air. She pursed her lips in great determination and attacked the blank sheet of parchment.

"A long line here..."

"A curving spiral here..."

"Some spots of course..."

"Can't forget about the sky..."

There, all done! The seven year old admired the fruits of her labor. What was supposed to be her family resembled a few squiggly lines and multiple failed attempts at ovals. Dissatisfied with her work, Grace crumpled the parchment and threw it over her shoulder where it joined the pile of twenty other "masterpieces." She scratched her nose, inadvertently getting ink on her cheek, and began to brainstorm her next idea.

She acquired her love of drawing when her father purchased parchment and ink from sailors two weeks before. Her parents kept stressing how important it was that she learned to read and write, but Grace preferred doodling and folding the parchment into different shapes. Her passion for drawing couldn't really be classified as a "talent," but she enjoyed it nonetheless.

She contemplated different ideas for her next project:

"Fish? - Too boring."

"The sun? - I need to get a better look first."

"Trees? - Too easy."

"Birds? - It's been done."

Her father interrupted her brainstorm as he entered the house. He found the nearest rag and wiped the sweat off his brow; he had been working all morning on the rice terraces. He filled a cup with water and gulped it down, letting out a satisfied "ahhhh" as he set the empty cup down on the table. Only after he caught his breath did he notice the little girl lying randomly in the middle of the floor.

"What are you working on Gracie?"

"Just some pictures," said Grace, not looking up.

Upon further examination, he noticed the black ink smudged across her face.

"Hey come here for a second. You've got a little something."

Grace groaned, but obeyed her father. He used his sleeve to clear off most of the ink, but some of the faded black just wouldn't come out. Grace crinkled her nose as he brushed away the ink.

"Hold still! There's still some left!"

"I'm sorry, but it tickles!"

After a solid minute or two, Ren realized the hopelessness of trying any longer. She would just have to look a bit odd for a couple of days until the color naturally faded away.

"Eh...that's good enough, I guess."

The little girl promptly returned to her designated drawing spot in the middle of the floor and resumed her brainstorming process. The father looked around the house, passing the time. Over the last few years, Ren and Fay made a few renovations to their home, most noticeably the wooden floors. The house consisted of two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a "living space," for lack of a better word. Fay always picked new flowers for the vase that eternally rested on the table. Today, multicolored wildflowers brightened the room.

Another piece of crumpled parchment sailed across the room and joined its comrades piled in the corner.

The family of three kept the home clean and tidy most of the time. Occasionally, Grace tracked dirt into the house after her outdoor "adventures." She really was a wild child, running around barefoot and climbing anything in sight. Her knees and elbows were perpetually scabbed and bruised. She seemingly ran on a continuous motor and never tired. Well, that's not really an accurate comparison. She ran on a continuous motor ninety percent of the time, and the other ten percent of the time she slept like a snail-sloth. It was an odd sight to see her relaxed and calm, drawing picture after picture.

Yet another projectile piece of parchment took flight and subsequently crash-landed with the rest. Grace groaned in annoyance:

"I can't think of anything good to draw."

"Why don't you take a break for a bit and go outside? It's a beautiful day," said Ren.

The little girl let her chin rest on the floor.

"I'll take you on the forest trail."

Grace's head shot up like a rocket, "The forest?"

Her father nodded.

The forest had always enchanted Grace, mostly because she wasn't allowed to go there unattended. It was probably for the best. In the deep forest, the trees muddled together in confusing patterns, making it easy to get lost. Straying away from the trails, even for a couple minutes, could throw a traveler off course and into the maze. It's not that Grace couldn't stick to the trail. Her parents just knew her curiosity would take over. It was better to be safe than sorry with the wild child.

The girl flew out the door and sprinted to the opening of the trail. She waited and waited until she realized her father hadn't left the house. She sprinted back to the house to find Ren just leaving.

"Let's go already!" she yelled.

He laughed, "Settle down. Your father's getting to be an old man."

"You're thirty-two."

"That is true, but keeping up with you makes me feel like I'm sixty-two."

At first, father and daughter walked hand in hand along the forest trail. Before long, however, Grace let go of his hand and ran ahead, always staying in sight. She urged him to walk faster, and when he couldn't hear her yelling from far away, she ran back to tell him. This process continued for most of the walk. Well, it really wasn't a walk, more like one little person running ahead, turning around and running back. Only the father actually walked at a constant pace.

The girl's long white hair trailed her as she ran. She loved the trail, not because of the scenery, but because of the unknown feeling of being someplace new. She was mostly concerned with the destination, whatever that destination happened to be. Ren, on the other hand, took in all of the sights and sounds of the familiar trail. Seven years ago, saplings sprouted on the edges of the trail, but now they had grown into young maples with rusty red leaves. During summers like these, all the trees created a shrouded canopy with their leaves, absorbing all the sunlight possible. In the branches overhead, songbirds and critters built nests. Every now and then, one could discern the chattering of squirrel-monks gnawing at the hollow wood of tree trunk. The father smiled to himself.

Just as the forest had grown up, so had his daughter. She had grown up right before his eyes. Now, he scoffed at the fact that he had ever doubted fatherhood. He used to wonder if he was ready for the responsibility, but now he realized it didn't even matter. Spending time with his daughter, watching her run and climb, it wasn't a responsibility: it wasn't work. If he could, he wanted to spend every waking second with her. He loved everything about the little girl with white hair, from her contagious laughter to her reckless antics. She had her mother's personality. That was for sure.

Seven years later, new hibiscus flowers and fiery dragon plants painted the edges of the pond, yet the tranquil atmosphere still remained. The pond skaters still darted across the surface, and the cattails still swayed in the summer breeze. Soft moss blanketed the earth. Most noticeably, the white lotus buds floated methodically, rhythmically, undisturbed by the visitors. Nothing about the pond had changed. Well, some of the plants were new, of course. But, mostly everything about the place was the same. The only difference was that the man was no longer troubled, and he didn't have to sit alone.

"Whoa..." the little girl stood in awe.

Ren laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, "This is my favorite place to go when I need to think."

The father sat cross-legged, as usual, and the daughter tried her best to do the same. For a while, they sat there and just listened to the forest. Ren closed his eyes and relaxed. Grace, with the attention span of a rodent, soon tired of listening to the forest. She picked at the moss on the ground, and discovered she could peel off large chunks like a carpet. By the time Ren opened his eyes and told her to cut it out, she had utterly destroyed most of the moss blanket.

_Sniff..._

_Sniff…sniff_

_Snifffffff_

"Hey dad what's that smell?"

"That, my dear, is the aroma of a butterfly bush," said Ren, feeling rather scholarly.

He continued, "The butterfly bush attracts insects with its nectar, and that's what you smelled just now."

Grace absently nodded.

"In fact," Ren stated, "I know quite a bit about the pollination process."

"It all begins in the flower. Flowering plants have several different parts that are important in pollination. Stamens produce the powdery pollen. Aside from causing allergies for people like us, pollen is vital in plant reproduction. Accidentally, bugs or birds will pick up pollen while they drink the flower nectar. Then, when they fly over to the next flower, they rub pollen on the stigma, which is usually located in the middle of the flower. From the stigma, the pollen travels into the fruit at the bottom of the ovule. The result is seeds that you and I can plant!"

He glanced at his daughter; "I know this because pollination is very important for farmers like myself. We couldn't have a harvest if the rice didn't grow back each year."

More depressing than Ren's unhealthy fascination with plant reproduction was the fact that Grace ignored every single word he said. Pollination simply wasn't an interesting topic. Not to mention she didn't understand half the words he said. Instead, she remained fixated on the white lotus floating towards her. The way the flower effortlessly glided across the water captivated the little girl. Ren was about to begin another "enjoyable" lecture on the importance of sunlight when Grace interrupted him and asked:

"What is that floating flower called?"

He snapped out of his botanical daze, "Oh, that's a white lotus."

When the girl didn't speak up, he continued, "Actually, the white lotus has a really important meaning to me," he paused, "it helped me get through a confusing time in my life, the day you were born, actually."

Upon hearing herself mentioned, Grace's eyes lit up.

"Oooh! Tell me the story!"

"It's nothing really. I guess the white lotus helped me realize I had to raise you as delicately and carefully as I would pick up a flower from the pond."

Grace smiled and leaned Ren.

"You're an awesome dad."

The white lotus floated over to the visitors sitting on the moss. The bigger of the two scooped up the flower, and he gently put it in her hair.

"Wow, that's pretty neat. The white lotus blends into your hair like it isn't even there! You should keep it and see if your mother even notices!"

Father and daughter remained that way, sitting quietly by the pond, staying until the sun went down, and forgetting about the worrying mother who waited at home. These days weren't frequent, but Ren savored each and every one. By the time they left, the sun had set under the trees and candles lit up the windows of the village huts. They snuck around the back of the house to avoid an angry mother waiting at the front door.

Later that evening, Grace resumed her adventures in the world of art. Except this time she knew exactly what she wanted to draw. Instead of hastily doodling, she took her time making sure each line-stroke was just right, and she rolled up her sleeves to avoid smudging the ink. The curved petals radiated from the center with perfect symmetry, and the flower floated effortlessly on the page like it did in the pond. For the first time that day, Grace breathed a sigh of relief as she admired her own rendition of the white lotus.


End file.
